Injury By Cooking Material
by JuliaKerns5
Summary: WARNING: Slash and incest! Sam/Dean Wincest! The aftermaths of a head injury leaves Dean drawing a blank on his memories. And unlike Sam, he's unaware of their related blood, and wants to take advantage of that fact.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer_: I do not own Supernatural.

"All right, Mr. Winchester, just tell me one more time. How did your brother get this injury?"

Sam grits his teeth, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, "We were just washing the dishes and we were kind of – kind of playing around and then the pan just slipped from my hand and it fell on his head."

The doctor nods slowly, running a hand through his hair with a shake of his head, "Mr. Winchester. Are you aware of the fact that your brother has suffered a very severe skull crack? Did you drop this pan from three stories up?"

Sam lets out a bark of laughter. Doctors like these, that interrogated their mouths dry even though they didn't really care, are what makes going to the hospital after serious injuries practically impossible. "It… it was a heavy pan, sir. Thick metal."

The doctor nods slowly again, but not before he sends Sam a slightly suspicious look. Sam folds his hands in his lap and smiles at him innocently.

"All right then," the doctor mumbles underneath his breath, "injury by… cooking materials." He adds the last part with a sigh of disbelief and a slightly irritated scribble on his clipboard. He looks at Sam like he wants to ask him if he likes lying to people who want to help his family, but Sam challenges the doctor silently by sending him a wordless glower.

"From the looks of it, Mr. Winchester, your brother will be up soon, but his state is unknowable at this point. He could have a headache, he could be in agonizing pain, or he may not even remember who he is."

Sam closes his eyes, praying that the outcome isn't the latter. Explaining to a man suffering from amnesia all about demons, spirits, ghosts, reapers, and all things supernatural is giving the young hunter shivers down his spine. Their hunts would be on hold for weeks, maybe even months.

"Thank you doctor." Sam mutters darkly, setting his elbows on his knees as he sits restlessly on his chair. His gaze doesn't leave his motionless brother the whole time, his fingers tapping meaningless rhythms on his skin.

"I'll… just leave you to him then," the doctor clicks closed his pen and heads for the door, his grip hesitating on the doorknob, "oh, and Mr. Winchester? Next time, just order takeout."

Sam ignores the doctor as he leaves the room with a heavy sigh, his stony gaze still firm on Dean. The machine beeps profusely along with the ticking of the clock. Sam sighs.

And he waits.

Why is Dean always the one getting in aggressive fights with demons and spirits and ending up in dire situations at the hospital? Sam is tired of being so overly protective and possessive of his accident-prone brother, but what else does he have other than worrying about the last remaining bit of family he had? He remembers the incident with the spirit vividly.

Sam had stayed at their motel room to restock some of their rock salt guns, Dean assuring Sam that he could handle this hunt on his own. He had called his brother's cell phone half an hour later, his voice breathless and urgent and oh-so-in-trouble, pleading for Sam to come and help him because he was not fighting the expected single demon, but a whole team of them. Sam had arrived at the scene just to see Dean being telekinetically thrust against the wall, his head taken the major force from the blow.

Sam wants to tell himself that Dean has been through worse, and that Sam is just worrying himself dead again like always, and that if Dean could see him now he'd be laughing his ass off.

The machine is suddenly speeding up.

Sam shoots up from the chair, immediately to his brother's side and pushing the _ALERT_ button to summon the hospital staff hard enough to break it. Two nurses burst through the door to witness the scene before they rush forward and knock Sam out of the way.

And just as the nurses are yelling commands at each other and tossing equipment back and forth, chargers in one hand and gloves secured on the other, Dean wakes up coughing violently.

Sam pushes the nurse out of the way, grabbing one of his brother's shoulders and massaging it swiftly. "Dean!" he shouts, kneeling down at his bedside. "Oh, thank god, I thought I was going to lose you–"

Dean's coughing promptly turns into vomiting, and before anyone can grab him a bag, Dean has effectively ruined the scratchy hospital sheets. The nurses gasp, hurriedly carrying it off the bed and leaving Dean clad in his crinkly hospital gown.

"Dean, don't worry about the demons, I took care of them–" Sam rambles, blinking through the tears that had threatened to fall earlier.

"Can I get some painkillers over here, doc? My head is throbbing like a friggin' construction site!"

Sam takes a step back. It wasn't the statement or the sudden exclamation of pain, but the way that Dean's eyes had made contact with Sam's when he had asked imploringly for medicine that worries Sam.

"Dean…?" he attempts hesitantly.

"Can't you hear me? I need some meds!" Dean rubs soothingly at his scalp, cracking his neck with a groan.

Sam puts a shoulder on the older man's shoulder, staring into his eyes, "Dean, who am I?"

Dean stops his whining, his eyebrows furrowed at the unorthodox question, "Who are you?" he repeats puzzlingly. Sam nods urgently and Dean looks him up and down, "Uh… from the way you're dressed, I'm guessing hospital janitor."

Sam feels his insides drop about two hundred miles, his brain shriveling up. He sinks back down onto his chair, rubbing his palms into his eyes and mumbling the word _no_ in a litany of despondence.

"Uh… uh, sir? I'm guessing from that little meltdown you're _not_ the janitor, but look, no offense meant–"

"Dean. Dean, stop it." Sam finally mumbles, taking a deep breath and rubbing at the nape of his neck.

"Dean?" the older man repeats perplexedly.

Sam wants to bang his forehead repeatedly against the wall. And then maybe he wants to do the same to Dean. This is _not_ what they needed right now.

"Your name, your name is Dean!" Sam explains hastily, "You've been in an accident and you've had a head injury, but don't worry, it'll be all right, okay?"

Dean furrows his eyebrows. The way Sam is talking sounds a lot like Sam is trying to comfort himself out of this nightmarish situation, and Dean is still very, very confused. And goddamn hungry, too.

"Come again?" he asks calmly, tilting his head a bit towards the stranger.

"An accident, Dean! You hit your head and you can't remember anything anymore!" Sam explains heatedly.

Dean scratches his head, letting out a low whistle, "Wow, never thought something like that would happen to me, it's like winning the lottery or finding a friggin' ghost in your attic."

Sam cringes, "Look, why don't you get dressed and use the bathroom and sort yourself out?" he suggests, helping Dean off the bed. It isn't until Dean is shuffling over to the curtain-enclosed bathroom in the corner of the room that Sam realizes that the hospital gown his brother is donning is not very concealing in the back.

"I – hello." Sam mumbles, his hand sliding over his mouth as his eyes fall upon the unhidden patch of skin deep down Dean's back.

"Something wrong?" Dean asks, his head cocking over his shoulder slightly with raised eyebrows.

"Uh – uh, just watch your skin, Dean."

The older man peers down his back, chortling when he sees the situation. "Oops," he laughs good-heartedly before he disappears behind the curtain. Sam shoves some of Dean's clothes underneath the curtain helpfully.

A minute passes, and Sam shoots up to the curtain once he hears the toilet flush to help Dean back onto his bed. The rings on the curtain rod screech noisily as Dean hobbles away, cracking his neck and rubbing at his head.

"So, my name really is Dean."

Sam raises his eyebrows as he settles his brother back onto the bed. "How did you confirm this?"

"Well, I seem to be the type of person to write their name on their underwear!" Dean states with a bark of laughter.

"Look," Sam begins urgently, brushing off the comment of Dean's underwear, "we have got to get you your memory back. Dean, do you remember anything? Do you remember my name?"

Dean groans as he adjusts himself on the mattress and frowns as Sam looks urgently into his eyes. "Nope." He says bluntly, throwing his hands up, "All I know is that my head _hurts_."

Sam puts a hand on his brother's shoulder's comfortingly, "Your head will be taken care of in time, all right? Just listen to me, we need to get you your memories back! My face doesn't ring any bells?" Sam sticks his face into his brother's like a bee buzzing around someone's eyes infuriatingly, craning his neck in the process.

Slowly a smile forms on Dean's lips, "Let me take a guess here. Jack?"

Sam furrows up his eyebrows. "What? No!"

Dean snaps his fingers, "You looked like a Jack. Uh – Mark?"

"No."

"William?"

"Nope."

"John?"

"Still no."

"Michael?"

"Okay, that's enough!" Sam says hurriedly, rubbing at his temples, "My name's Sam."

"As in Samantha?" Dean inquires with a crooked smile. Sam smiles through his teeth, somewhat pleased that Dean at least still has his childlike cheekiness. He may not remember his name or what he and his brother ate for dinner last night, but right now, Sam's all right with just Dean's quirky annoying habits.

"No, as in Sam." Sam grits out, nodding curtly towards his brother.

The older man chuckles, playing with the mattress. "As in Sammy?" he cocks his head with a grin.

"It's _Sam_." Sam repeats firmly, but their conversation is interrupted by an abrupt ringing from his pant's pocket. "One second." He mutters to Dean and gropes around in his pocket to retrieve his cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sam," Bobby's voice sounds through the receiver, "I tried calling Dean's phone but he didn't pick it up."

"Yeah…" Sam's gaze wanders over to Dean, who's staring around at the hospital room interestedly. "Yeah, Dean doesn't have his phone with him."

"Well, at least I got one of you. There's a real promising hunt down in Alabama, just in case you two wanna check it out–"

"Uh, Bobby?" Sam mumbles, shuffling towards the corner of the room and out of his brother's earshot, "We're, um, we're not in any condition to be taking hunts right now."

"What's wrong?" Bobby asks immediately.

Sam runs a hand down his face with a deep sigh, "Dean's… Dean got attacked by some demons and had a small… a small head injury."

Bobby's silent for some time on the other line, breathing quietly into the receiver before he finally growls, "How small?"

"It's… it's just… it's complicated, Bobby."

"Go on."

Sam sighs, "He can't remember anything anymore," he tells him quietly, "Bobby, everything that's happened here is so overwhelming and I could really use some help."

"I sure as hell am not running over to wherever you may be right now! If you want help, Sam, then come see me, all right?"

"I… fine. Dean and I'll be over soon… as least as soon as this hospital lets us."

He frowns when he hears Bobby tut sharply from the other side of the line, "Breaking out of a hospital never seemed to be an issue to you before."

"Maybe not for me and the old Dean, but I think the new Dean is so – so innocent and peaches and cream that breaking out of a hospital is like stealing from a homeless man." Sam barks.

"Well, it's 'bout time the new Dean learns the ways of hunters or you'll never be a hunter again. Amnesia is not a cold, Sam! He won't just… get over it."

Sam sighs, looking at Dean from the corner of his eyes, "All right. We'll get out."

"Atta boy."

The younger man hangs up the phone instantly, stuffing it in his pocket and sitting on the edge of Dean's bed awkwardly. Strange as it was, Dean in his current state is practically pure. If he wants to, Sam knows that he could meld his brother into the infallible sibling that every man dreams of, but he knows that Dean deserves to at least know what and who he was down to even the most gruesome and annoying detail.

"So," Dean begins, shrugging, "are you my boyfriend or whatever?"

"What?!" Sam repeats, eyes widening, "why the hell would you think that?"

Dean huffs, "Well, you kept on touching my arm!"

Sam rubs at his forehead, "No, we're not boyfriends. Drop the _boy_, all right?"

The older man winks flirtatiously, "It's a shame," he tells him, "you're not that shabby looking."

Sam freezes. So Dean's already making himself into his old, flirt-with-everything-that-breathes self, and as relieved Sam is that he doesn't have to teach Dean how incredibly coquettish he is, the purity sure hadn't lasted long. And then there was also the fact that they were related.

Sam sighs.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer_: I do not own Supernatural.

"She's _gorgeous_."

Sam rolls his eyes, Dean hoisted up on his shoulder as he drags him hastily out of the hospital. They're hobbling out of the parking lot with the older man practically clinging onto Sam's back, and through a series of winces, Sam places Dean back onto the pavement. He smiles faintly as he watches Dean's fingertips graze the smoothness of the Impala, his lips pursing into a low whistle.

"She's yours." Sam tells him, playing with the keys in his hands, "but I think it would be better if I drive." He hops into the front seat, grinning as he watches Dean stare in fascination at the car's interior.

"This is a baby, this one." He leans back into the seat and lets out a relaxed sigh.

Sam starts the car and watches as Dean plays with the buttons of the radio. He presses the _on_ button, AC/DC immediately bursting out in noisy screams. Dean beams.

"Good music too." He bobs his head along to the beat while Sam scrunches his face up at the loudness of the tunes. He hurriedly turns it down.

"Dean, you need to relax. And AC/DC is not very relaxing."

"I don't want to listen to any classical, dude." Dean says coolly, frowning slightly at his brother.

"It'd be a miracle if you had any classical music in here, Dean." Sam says, his grip on the steering wheel tightening considerably.

"Where are we going anyway?" Dean says, interrupting the dead air.

"A friend of ours," Sam tells him, "his name's Bobby."

The younger man steals a shifty glance at his brother, who nods along in acknowledgment, his fingers drumming along to the tinny rhythms coming from the radio. Bobby's house was a hunter's house even from the outside. From the way demon-repellent charms are scattered surreptitiously across the lawn and the devil's trap drawn in chalk on the roof of the patio, it acts almost like an anti-magnet to regular civilians. And at the moment, that's all that Dean is.

"Dean, I think we need to talk about something." Sam starts uneasily. This is like giving teenagers The Talk or breaking the news about Santa to seven-year-olds. He bites his lip, "There's something about yourself that you don't know."

Dean barks out laughter, "Sammy, there's a lot of thing that I don't know about myself."

Sam frowns as he hears the nickname slip easily off of Dean's tongue. He had been hoping that with the amnesia, he could attempt to teach Dean to steer clear of that name entirely. No such plan was ever created.

"Well, this is the most important thing."

"Did I use to be a woman? Am I wanted in all countries?"

Sam cringes, "No guessing, please," he grits out, feeling a small bead of sweat fall down his forehead, "there's a lot you don't remember about the world."

He doesn't know how to continue. Actually, he has nothing to continue on. He doesn't know how to _start_ this conversation. He knows that Dean is a very visual learner and likes to see evidence with his eyes, but searching out a spirit or a demon in crossroads would be the worst way and most dangerous to teach Dean about the supernatural. It had been so simple in the past, easing Dean and Sam into their sense of the world by growing up in it. But this was too late for the beginning of an innocent four-year-old's life.

Sam can't lead Dean into Bobby's house and let him draw his own horrific conclusions from the various supernatural objects lying around the place. And not to mention that Bobby would probably give them both doses of holy water for precaution. The devil's traps on the ceilings, the paranormal books, the arrays of guns probably on display on his dining room table for precaution…

It's going to be a long trip to South Dakota, which definitely gives Sam time to expound on the whole situation, but it's still going to be difficult. Sam worries his lower lip, his eyes focused fixedly on the deserted road in front of him. Sharply, he jerks the steering wheel to the side and stops the car at the side of the road. Dean raises his eyebrows at his brother.

"What's going on?"

"Out of the car." Sam orders shortly and makes his way to the car's trunk. Dean joins him a second later. He _hopes_ that this is the easiest way to teach Dean. There's no risk, no long explanations, just one glance that would easily fill up three hours of talking. The younger man unlocks the trunk and opens it swiftly. His eyes are fixed on Dean as he watches his brother graze over the back of the car's contents in awe. In the back, hundreds of guns, knives, and other sorts of lethal weaponry are strapped to the felt.

"What… what is all this?"

"It's protection, Dean." Sam watches as Dean picks up a rock salt gun and runs his fingers across the handle.

"From _what_? Do we have gangsters running after our asses or something?"

Sam cringes, "Thankfully, no."

"What the hell are we?" Dean asks, his eyes narrowed quizzically, "I'm not an outlaw, am I?"

Sam puts a hand soothingly on his brother's shoulder and squeezes, "No, Dean. We're heroes. We're hunters."

"Of… uh, deer?"

"Of spirits… of ghosts, of demons." Sam delicately takes the gun out of Dean's hands and straps it back down into its holder.

"_Demons?_" Dean repeats incredulously, his eyes as wide as tires, "what the hell, dude? This is ridiculous!"

Sam bites down on his tongue. Clearly, Dean wants evidence. And Sam doesn't know how easy giving it to him is going to be. Dean is staring at Sam with a stony gaze, his hands hard on his hips.

"C'mon, this is just stupid! Prove it!"

Sam rubs at his forehead. Performing an exorcism to summon a spirit was not something that Sam wants to engage in. But a truckload of guns and ammo was clearly not enough to persuade Dean about the supernatural world. He considers calling Bobby for advice.

"All right, fine." Sam says, shrugging, "once we get to South Dakota, Bobby will show you."

Dean looks as though he wants to pressure Sam for more, because _no way_ is he getting into a car with this freak now, but instead he grits his teeth and stomps back into the front seat, trying to conceal his obvious limp.

"Dean, I know this is overwhelming–" Sam begins.

"Oh no! This isn't overwhelming! This is damn _insane_, man, and I'm not buying it! Just because I have some memory issues doesn't mean I'll believe anything!"

"Dean–"

"No! I'm not an idiot!" Huffing, Dean crosses his arms and turns up the radio to maximum volume to tune out any of Sam's future arguments.

Sam sighs, revving up the car again. They drive in silence except for the blaring of the music, but to Sam, the air is still dead. He keeps on stealing glances to his brother, who is staring pointedly out the window.

They arrive at Bobby's house in the evening just during sundown. Still quiet, Dean exits the car, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and follows Sam dutifully up the front steps. Sam knocks with white knuckles.

Bobby answers the door and smiles when his eyes fall upon the Winchesters.

"C'mon in, boys. Hey Sam." Sam steps into the dark house, looking over his shoulder concernedly as he watches Dean follow him with an aura of reluctance.

"You must be Bobby."

Bobby heaves a deep sigh as he stares Dean up and down, a hand scratching at the back of his hair worriedly.

"That I am," he answers grimly, extending his hand, "hey, Dean. C'mon into the kitchen. You two must be thirsty."

Sam watches as Dean stares at the walls of Bobby's home. There are guns similar to the ones in the Impala's truck adorning the walls, and Sam can tell from the way Dean is glaring that he doesn't like what he's seeing.

Bobby hands them both two beers, clearly spiked with doses of holy water. Sam swallows it deftly, watching as Dean sniffs untrustingly at the bottle.

"So… Sam, does… uh, have things been explained yet?" Bobby asks as discreetly as he can manage as he sips at his own bottle of beer. Sam frowns.

"I tried. Didn't believe me."

"Naturally." Bobby turns to Dean, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Sam hisses to the older man.

"There's only one way for Dean to learn, Sam," Bobby turns to Dean, "Come with me, would you, son? Something to show you."

"Uh. All right." Dean sends a shady glance over his shoulder to Sam, who follows the pair like a neglected puppy.

"Are you bringing him along to a _hunt_? Are you crazy, Bobby?" Sam whispers out of Dean's earshot, acting a bit like the enraged angel on Bobby's shoulder. Bobby shushes him.

"There's a demon in the basement, all right? Dean can watch as we send it back to hell."

Sam relaxes slightly. Dean eyes are still zipping around at the abnormal decorations like a fly's buzzing around his head irritably. Sam wants to console his brother and try to apologize for springing the supernatural on him so tactlessly, but he holds back. They step warily down the creaky stairs that lead to Bobby's basement.

Sam wants to break down on the steps and cry. He has to treat Dean like a person they meet on a hunt on accident and hastily have to explain everything about the paranormal. He'd always had someone to talk to about all things supernatural, someone that was always at his side, someone that had been through everything that Sam had, and that someone was Dean. But not anymore.

By now Sam can hear the growls of someone desperately trying to rid themselves of strong bonds. As they reach the landing, Dean gasps as his eyes fall upon a man strapped to a chair within a neatly drawn devil's trap. Dean stares at it all, the screaming man, the unorthodox drawings on the floor and ceiling, the bucket of holy water near the chair.

Bobby crosses his arms and heaves a deep sigh at the demon.

"Who is this?" he growls, "another one of you hunters?"

"You lost the right to ask me questions when you punched me in the stomach," Bobby says gruffly, and grabs the bucket of holy water. He steadies it in his hand, his grip poised to throw.

"This is for your benefit, Dean." Bobby whispers, right before he throws the water onto the man.

His yell of pain is piercing. Sam can feel Dean cowering subconsciously into him as smoke rises from the man's skin like steam rising from a pothole.

"Wha – what the hell is going on?" Dean attempts to whisper to Sam over the man's shrieks.

"He's a demon." Sam explains softly, and lightly grabs Dean's shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

"What is that, like, boiling water?"

"No. It's holy water."

"But – but it smoked when it touched him!" Dean points out indignantly, recoiling as Bobby flicks more water on the man.

"Watch, Dean." Sam tells him gently, and leans forward to grab a handful of water from the bucket. It sloshes around his palm calmly.

"I – can I?" Dean inquires quietly, his fingers hesitantly hovering over the water. Sam nods.

He sticks in his thumb, his eyes scrunched to expect the worst. But the water remains peaceful underneath his touch. More than stunned, Dean watches as Sam dumps the holy water still in his hand on the bound man, the prisoner screaming in agony once again.

"Any last words before we send you back to hell?" Bobby asks gruffly.

"Hell?" Dean repeats incredulously.

"It's a tough world, kid." Bobby tells him with an unmovable scowl.

"This is… this is unbelievable."

Sam lets the hand that's on Dean's shoulder wander to his neck to massage gently. "It's… it's just the evil that's in every world. You used to fight these, Dean."

"How… how do you fight something like this?" Dean asks with wide eyes as the demon's eyes flash black.

Bobby starts to rattle off the Latin speech to send the demon back to hell. Sam can vaguely feel the pulse at Dean's neck from his massaging, and is scared to feel how increased the beats are.

"_Relax_." He whispers consolingly. It only takes a few more seconds of chanting before the demon shoots up from the man's mouth, yells being the only sound accompanying the procedure. Finally, the now innocent man slumps motionlessly in the chair, stuck in unconsciousness except for the light groaning noise slipping from his lips.

"That was… that was friggin' weird. Weird, but… _god_, that was awesome." Dean mumbles, shaking his head.

"What?" Sam asks perplexedly.

"C'mon! Every single little boy in the world thinks there's something evil in the world, like vampires and werewolves and monsters. And every one of those little boys takes a bat and swings it around underneath his bed to kill that monster. And I get to be that boy, but grown-up!" Dean turns away from Sam's grasp, facing Bobby, "Can I see more?"

"Uh… sure." Bobby mutters, clearly as surprised about Dean's reaction as Sam is. "Sam, bring 'im upstairs? I'll take care of this guy."

Bobby leans down to untie the man's bonds as Sam helps his limping brother up the stairs, sitting him down on the lumpy couch. All of a sudden, Dean's eyes are falling over the weaponry and other supernatural items like a man's last minute with his eyesight.

"So this is all real? Demons and all?"

"Yeah," Sam nods gravely.

"C'mon, don't look so serious!"

"Classic Dean." Sam mutters to his lap, "Don't be so fearless. It's dangerous out there. Demons aren't handed to you in cages. People die during this job, they lose limbs, they have serious accidents… like you."

He stares grimly at the floor, not even noticing as Dean moves his from seat on the armchair and scoots closer to Sam on the couch. He vaguely feels someone bouncing on the cushions beside him and a hand rubbing at his back soothingly. Sam pries open an eyelid suspiciously.

"Stuff happens," Dean chuckles, "Hell, I can't even remember that accident!"

"Not funny, Dean."

Bobby joins the pair in the living room, his eyebrows raised up to his hairline as he watches Dean's fingers rubbing at Sam's back.

"Uh… Dean, how about you come with me upstairs? Have some books to show you." Bobby offers.

"Sure," the older Winchester smiles at Bobby before he gives another reassuring pat on Sam's back, "You all right, Sammy?"

"'M fine." Sam says hastily, his fingers rubbing at his temples as he twists his back to maneuver away from Dean's touch. He gives a stiff smile to his brother.

"There's that smile," Dean teases, "lights up the room and not to mention _me_." He chortles at his own joke before he hoists himself off the couch.

Bobby is gaping at the two brothers. "You know what," he growls, "Sam, can I talk to you in the kitchen first? Sorry, Dean."

Sam rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly, reluctantly meeting gazes with Bobby. "Uh, all right." He agrees timidly before he shuffles after the oldest man in the room with the slump of someone fighting their way through a waist-deep swamp.

Once they had retreat to the kitchen, Bobby grabs a whisk that's lying on the countertop and promptly thumps Sam on top the head with it.

"Ow!" Sam cries indignantly, rubbing at his forehead. "What was that for?"

"Does he not know that the two of you are _brothers_?"

Sam sighs, "He… he knows."

"_Sam_." Bobby growls warningly.

"Fine!" he purses his lips and runs a hand through his hair, "He doesn't know! It's too late to tell him now!"

Bobby heaves a sigh, his head falling into his hands, "Boy, you're even worse than Dean! The poor guy has lost his memory and deserves to know where he came from!" He hisses, "And with whom." Bobby adds as an afterthought.

"It'll be fine. I'll sort it out. Right now, he just needs a friend."

Bobby huffs in disbelief, "He's not looking for a friend. I saw that – that _back massage_, Sam. That's no _friend_ you've become to him."

"I'll deal with it!"

Bobby laughs sardonically, tossing the sink back onto the counter, "Very funny, Sam. I've learned to never trust a Winchester when it comes to situations like these."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer_: I do not own Supernatural.

This isn't the first time that Sam has been slightly terrified of his brother.

It's not that Dean is on another one of his killing spurs or frustration tantrums or even crazy and irrational desire for food, but he's winked three times in Sam's direction in the past hour. And the worst part is that he can feel Bobby's disapproving look eyeing the both of them like a hawk.

"And then we reload them." Sam finishes with a flourish, brandishing a clean rock salt gun in front of his brother's nose. His eyes flicker back to where Bobby is watching the pair on the couch uneasily.

"And I'm guessing this'll… what, make someone back off?"

Sam bites his bottom lip awkwardly, "It'll keep spirits away," he slides a bullet of salt cleanly out of the gun and displays it in his palm, "it's salt. And salt deters spirits. We line rooms with salt if want spirits to stay out. Or in, for that matter."

Dean's eyes run over the salt in fascination. "What about pepper?"

"No," Bobby's voice breaks through their conversation, "that's just for spaghetti, boy."

Dean nods, chuckling, "So can we, like… summon a spirit? And then kill it?"

"_No_," Sam and Bobby chorus firmly.

"Besides," the younger hunter says, "killing a spirit is a little harder than killing demons."

"And demons?"

"No demons are gonna be invited here either, Dean," Bobby snarls, "sorry, but this sure as hell isn't a tea party."

Dean doesn't seem fazed by Bobby's slightly harsh tone. Sam catches the older man's gaze uncomfortably. Bobby leans across the coffee table discreetly, muttering, "He's growing on you like a colony of E.Coli on room-temperature Canadian beef."

Sam winces.

--

There's a startling _thump_ as Bobby drops a handful of musty books on the table that Sam's been dozing on. His cheek pressed against the hard wood and his disheveled hair splayed on the surface, he's roughly pulled from his slumber at the sound.

"What's going on?" he mumbles groggily, rubbing his eyes. Dean is upstairs in the guest room snoozing away the dark hours of the night. Sam is stuck lounging on the couch.

"You've got some reading to do." Bobby says sternly, leafing through one of the books in the middle of his organized the pile.

"Now?" Through blurry post-sleep vision, Sam checks his watch. He groans. "It's past midnight, Bobby."

"If you want Dean catching you read this, go ahead." Bobby shrugs heatedly.

Sam sighs heavily, "You disapprove."

A muscle twitches in Bobby's cheek, "I'm not your boy's father. But this is weirder than anything I've ever seen, Sam. Most of my life I've seen you two grow up with Dean pull on your hair and deny you cereal while your dad was gone on hunts. You acted like brothers. And now Dean looks at you and sees something… fun," Bobby cringes slightly, rubbing at his hairline, "it's just a little hard to swallow."

"I have it under control."

"Sure you do," Bobby says with a scoff of disbelief. He runs his finger down a textbook before he slams it down on the table, "Read this."

In faded text, a complicated ritual is written out in Latin. Sam sighs.

"God," he groans, "it's too late to be reading Latin."

"It's a ritual, Sam. It's not even tricky. I have everything it says we need."

"What does it do?"

Bobby kneels down so he's at eye level with Sam, "Dean will regain his memory. But at a price. He'll forget everything that you've done after the accident. His amnesia memories would be gone."

Sam smiles into his lap, "I love it," he says, "then he won't tease me about the fact that I didn't stop his obsessive flirting with me."

Bobby chokes out a bark of laughter, "Maybe not him. But I will."

The younger man rolls his eyes, reading the rest of the text. His grin rapidly turns into a scowl, "It's _dangerous_! It could hurt Dean, hell, it could blow up your house, Bobby! And this'll take like three months just to prep."

"You have somewhere to be?" Bobby says critically, crossing his arms.

"Dean wants to go on hunts."

"You can. But just remember that he won't remember any of it."

Maybe it's just the disorientation of the middle of the night that's screwing with the rational and irrational sensors in Sam's brain. He rubs at his forehead with a sigh. There's something so incredibly ludicrous about Dean's position.

"God, in situation like these I would ask Dean what'd to do. He's my brother."

"Not for the next three months," Bobby says with a purse of the lips, "he'll just be a guy you flirt with."

"Shut up," Sam snaps, raking a hand through his hair.

Bobby chuckles, "At least he won't remember."

"I will," he mutters, "God, Bobby, it's so strange. It's not even… it's not even supernatural. It's not some witch's spell or a demon-induced infatuation… it's Dean. Just Dean."

"Are you always such a drama queen when it's late?" Bobby asks, knitting his eyebrows together, "C'mon, Sam, Dean was in an accident. To civilians, this is just another problem. We'll get through it."

"But I devoted my life to being a hunter, not a civilian. I devoted my life to hunter issues, not civilian issues. That's the only thing this life gives me. And not anymore."

"I don't wanna hear the 'I-should-have-stayed-at-Stanford' talk."

"That's not what I'm saying!" Sam says roughly, shutting closed the book with unnecessary aggression, "I'm saying I should've looked after Dean better!"

"You're taking care of him. We're doing the spell. Period. I've made this decision for you before you're too much of a cranky _idget _to."

"What the hell is going on around here?"

Like a whip cracking at their necks, Sam and Bobby's eyes rivet to the noise by the stairway. Dean, clad in nothing but a fuzzy bathrobe and obvious pillow hair, looks for the comfort he can normally find in Sam with a perplexed look.

"Sammy? What's going on?"

"Nothing," Sam says hastily, throwing on a smile as hastens over to the staircase.

"Have you been up all night? Not a flattering look for you, cute boy."

"It's Sammy." Sam snaps. If he's going to have a nickname, _cute boy_ isn't going to be it. Cringing lightly, he pats Dean on the back, the poise of his shoulders a little bit too impeccable.

"We're just looking into a hunt, Dean. It's all right." Bobby explains, slinging his books into the crook of his arm.

"I'm not an idiot," Dean mutters. Sam winces. Dean was never skillful at reining his emotions or denying his desire to press for details, "it's like I caught you two playing tonsil hockey."

"You think we're keeping secrets from you?"

Dean nods in something that is definitely not submission or attempts to drop the subject, "Hell yeah," he mutters, "and I think that if my brain wasn't flipping cables to try to remember what the hell I've been doing the last few decades of my life you wouldn't be treating me like the damn third wheel!"

Sam doesn't think that Dean's the third wheel. He's not even the fifth wheel. He's the _road_. Inside the prison of all of the secrecy he's been suppressing from Dean since his accident, the one concerning the spell is on the tip of his tongue. He bites it.

"What's going on?"

"Supernatural stuff," Sam rattles down hastily, "I swear, Dean, it's nothing that you would understand."

He may not be excellent at holding his tongue, but if he has to let something out, he's good at bluffing. Dean is usually amazing at seeing through his poker face, but the new Dean who can't even remember what Sam's bitchy look resembles can't tell if he's fibbing or not.

"Are you… are you coming upstairs at one point?"

Sam's gaze flickers to Bobby for support, who catches his worried look with a smirk of oh-you're-so-not-getting-me-involved and shuffles out of the room to the library.

"Only one bed, Dean," Sam responds, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"So? It's king size."

"I… I roll around a lot."

Dean squints his eyes into disbelieving slits as though he's trying to filter through any of Sam's dishonesty. Innocently, Sam smiles.

"Well. I don't want to be the only one missing out on the… fun. I'll stay awake, let's read into this… supernatural stuff." It's a challenging request, so utterly Dean, but Sam can't stand to be subtly blackmailed. He tilts his head so his ear is brushing the voluminous layers of his clothing on his shoulder.

"All right," he mumbles and grits his teeth, "Bobby!"

Bobby trots reluctantly back into the room, "Boys?" he addresses gruffly.

"Dean wants to read up on that hunt we were talking about."

Bobby nods, "I figured so," he says dryly, and tosses a pamphlet of coffee-mug-stained paper into Dean's unsuspecting fingers, "There's some folks complaining about some strange behavior at the local bars. Demons like… possessing people there."

"So do we go and get 'em?" Dean asks, a hint of enthusiasm tugging at his voice.

Sam shakes his head and firmly puts a hand on his older brother's shoulder to restrain him.

"No," he denies quickly, "no, Bobby can handle it. Go to bed."

Dean sneers at Sam, "You're not my _mom_."

"I'm not letting a demon rough up an inexperienced Dean Winchester." Sam mutters, and turns to Bobby indignantly for back up. Bobby shrugs, nodding.

"They'll be time for that later, all right, Dean? Just… hang out with Sam."

"Great," Dean mutters sardonically, "maybe we'll have a sleepover and we'll braid each other hair while chick flicks run in the background and popcorn is all over pink sleeping bags."

"Whatever gets you off." Bobby says with a shrug.

"Vivid imagination you have there," Sam mutters.

"Maybe I'm starting to remember the past," Dean says bitterly, crossing his arms and glaring at Bobby, "I wanna come along."

"_No_." Sam mutters, realizing just how much he sounds like an over protective mother, "no, then I'll feel responsible for hurting you."

Dean pouts silently but ceases his arguments, "Fine. But I don't wanna be alone in the bedroom anymore."

Sam's eyebrows raise up to his hairline. He glances uneasily at Bobby before he shuffles up another stair step and mutters into Dean's ear, "I've told you before, Dean, we're just… friends."

"I'm not asking friends to get friendly," Dean says heatedly, "I just want to sleep, and not alone. C'mon, dude, it's not like you're my uncle or somethin'."

Sam restrains his wince. He's getting better at completely ignoring Dean's inappropriate comments. With a small smile, he nods curtly, "I'm sleeping on the floor."

At Dean's slightly perplexed face, the words _we're related, okay?_ almost slip from his lips, but his momentary lapse of judgment is gone the moment Bobby clears his throat uncomfortably.

"He's not a homophobe, Dean," Bobby tells the older Winchester reassuringly, "he's just… uptight."

_I'm not into incest_, Sam thinks furiously, frowning at Bobby. But as he looks Dean up and down and replays all of the conversations they've shared, he's acting nothing like his brother. He's a flirtatious man who needs a friend, and Sam is just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But he's still not an idiot. He won't let anything get too far. He'll have things like hunts and supernatural tutoring to tackle to keep his mind off of the openly playful new Dean Winchester.

"That Bobby sure runs a tight shift up here. Will he smack me on the ass with a paddle if he finds me masturbating?" Dean whispers to Sam as they trot up the stairs and Bobby retreats into the other room again. Sam doesn't know whether he's being genuinely worried or in another one of his coy moods.

"He's not our dad, Dean, he's not that bad."

"So… uh. About that."

Sam raises an eyebrow, "About what?"

"My dad." Dean responds shortly.

"Your dad?"

"And my mom. My family. I mean… who was I before I hit my head?" Dean asks quietly.

Sam smiles woodenly, "Uh. You were Dean Winchester."

"All righttt," he drawls, "I kind of figured that bit. I mean… my parents. What happened to them?"

Sam needs to create two different biographies within the next two seconds, the real one, and the incredibly fake one to stick with his own history. He smiles awkwardly, "Your mom… was killed by a demon when you were younger. You… you had a younger brother at the time, only a baby, but… he died because of the demon. Your dad spent the rest of his life and yours with it trying to figure out what killed her. He died in the process. You ended up killing the demon." No adjectives, no adverbs, no grins. It's a very crude explanation. Sam prides himself for his ability to keep information at a minimum.

Dean stares at the floor, attempting to break a smile and look at Sam for a hint that what he just shared is spurious. "I… I thought I would have a family."

"Hey. You still have me, and I'll be there, all right?" Sam puts a hand on Dean's shoulder to mollify him and quell the sudden despondence radiating from his brother.

Dean exhales lugubriously before he turns his gaze on Sam, "What about you, Sammy? Where's your family?"

"They're… uh. I… My parents are dead. But I have a brother."

"Oh?"

"He's…" Sam can't help as a fond smile flits over his face as he remembers his halcyon days, "he's gone. After a hunt, he… he said he could take care of it himself. He couldn't. He's… he's sick. And he won't get better."

"What… what happened?" Dean dares asking.

"Demons. It was just a stupid accident," Sam sighs heavily.

"He could get better."

"No. No, my brother is lost." The younger man says with a deep sigh, his eyes sweeping over his brother almost as though he's looking at a ghost of an old friend. The sudden, guilty feeling of keeping Dean in the dark about his past tingles up his spine like ants on his neck.

"All right," he mutters, opening the creaking door to the extra bedroom, "bedtime stories are over."

_CHAPTER 4 TEASER_: "I get the feeling we're related," Dean says. Sam's head perks up at the sentence.

_AN_: First, let me apologize for the freakishly long wait… I was out for a while for a spur-of-the-moment and impulsive road trip to Chicago! But the next update will be soon, so I can guarantee that this long wait won't happen again!

Halloween's coming up! I'm dressing up like Mr. Yellow Eyes… I got yellow contacts as an early birthday present (October 14 :D) and who wouldn't take the opportunity?? Sure, not a lot of people will know who I am, but I've always loved YED… any cool costumes out there for you readers?

Love,

Julie :D


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer_: I do not own Supernatural.

Lying in one bed with Dean's heavy, sleep breathing falling onto his shoulder and his octopus limbs searching him out is not something Sam finds particularly appealing on a Friday night.

He should have broken out the vodka before he went to bed.

Yes, it was king-sized and there were three pillows which indicated what side was Sam's, which one was Dean's, and what was the middle that neither of them crossed. It's personal space etiquette that everyone knows. But Dean wouldn't know rules if they slapped him over the forehead. Sam heaves a deep, dry sigh as he stares fixedly at the ceiling. He doesn't want to think about Dean's hands and the loose, clammy grip they have on his skin. He doesn't want to think about his warm breath inching closer and closer to his neck. He crawls his way to the edge of the bed, but he already has his hip and knee hanging off of the mattress from his earlier scooting. He growls and roughly shoves Dean back onto his pillow as the older man burrows closer.

"Wassgoinon?" Dean mumbles incoherently, his voice thick with sleep.

"Stay on your side, man." Sam hisses heatedly, aggressively digging his fingernails into the sheets.

"Sorry." Dean replies sleepily, and rolls back over. "You're warm. 'M not."

"I am not a human warming blanket," Sam says grimly, "I am getting out of the bed if you don't control that wandering foot of yours."

But the sound of Dean's soundly snoring stains the crisp night air once again. Sam sighs tersely like a disapproving tutor or a father staring down at his misbehaving children. Sam frowns at the sight of Dean's back, moving up and down rhythmically as a litany of _he's your brother, he's your brother_ runs through his brain like a broken record.

--

"So, Sammy," Dean begins joyfully with a smile, "what are we up to today?"

Sam grits his teeth as he searches fruitlessly for the orange juice pitcher in Bobby's fridge. Over his shoulder he sees Dean chow down on a plateful of eggs and bacon. It's a small surprise to Sam as he eyes a pile of dirty dishes in the sink; Dean took care of the breakfast himself.

"So I see that you've had a better night than I." Sam says darkly.

"Slept like a log." He replies brightly through a mouthful of crunchy toast.

Sam pours himself a cup of heavily caffeinated coffee as he rubs at his temples, "Good to hear," he faces his brother, "anyway. Busy day today, Dean."

"Are we hunting down something?" Dean inquires eagerly.

"I am," Sam takes a seat at the table, "You, however, are going clubbing." He pulls a sleek business card from the inside pocket of his jacket and slides it across the table with a fingertip. "New bar down on the street nearby. There's even strippers every Saturday night." He raises his eyebrows expectantly at Dean.

"Uh… thanks Mom. Can I have a pack of condoms instead?" Dean mocks, staring at the card in disbelief.

"Seriously, Dean. It's time you got a social life, found some… girls. Some fun."

"I have fun with you."

"Uh, wrong kind of fun." Sam tells him quickly, hiding his face in his coffee cup. Dean finishes off his breakfast plate.

"Why do I have to get out to get laid?"

Sam winces, "Dean, you do. You really, really do." He stands up from the table and points firmly at the business card. "It's a great place, find a girl. I don't care if you take her here, but you need to ease back into being… Dean."

Dean stares critically at the card, "So… uh…_ Dean_ would go clubbing instead of spending time with Sammy?"

"Yes!" Sam cries exasperatedly, "he would rather talk to the Impala than ask Sam about how he is! Dean, I know you want to find someone who can be a… cushion in this process of remembering who you are, but branch out!"

Dean glances up at Sam silently before he heaves a sigh and shoves the card into his pocket. "Fine. I'll be out of your hair soon enough."

The weight of guilt crashing onto his heart are like torrents of waves in a cantankerous ocean. But Sam knows that Bobby is awaiting him in the other room to help prepare the ritual. He nods curtly at Dean despite the fact that his eyes are firmly facing the table and claps his older brother on the shoulder.

"It'll be fun," he tells him softly, "you were a grade-A flirt before you hit your head."

"Good to know background information," the older man says gruffly, and swallows the rest of his drink with a noisy gulp.

--

At eight o'clock, Sam sees Dean out of the corner of his eye exit the house with the keys to the Impala jingling in his palm. Sam attempts to smile as he watches him through the window, but his glee that Dean was focusing his attention on someone besides him is tantamount to the culpability he feels for pushing Dean away.

"Do you think I did the right thing?"

Bobby looks up perplexedly from his deskwork, pushing more piles of books into cabinets. "Mind finishing that sentence?"

Sam groans into his hands and faces Bobby worriedly, "I'm pushing Dean away."

"Uh. That's good, Sam. Better than giving him the wrong idea."

"He needs me right now, I'm the only one he has!" Sam explains, "and… and I'm telling him to go to bars."

"Right now, a girl can give him better consoling than you can," Bobby says firmly, flipping through another textbook, "now will you give me a hand over here?"

"Sorry," Sam mumbles.

It's a mere ten minutes later that the sound of the Impala rumbling back into the driveway fills the air and Dean waltzes in with two cups of to-go coffee, smiling at both Bobby and Sam as he enters the house. He thrusts a coffee cup in Sam's hand.

"I – I thought you were going clubbing."

"Nope. I said I would get out of your hair, not go clubbing. Got us a coffee." He grins brightly and pops the lid off of the cup.

Sam stares incredulously at his coffee, swirling with grains of sugar and cream spiraling neatly through the coffee.

This is not good.

"Okay," Sam breathes concernedly, "no clubbing. Time for cleaning."

"Cleaning?" Bobby repeats, "this house is fine the way it is, boy, don't go rearranging my–"

"The Impala," Sam finishes, glaring at the older man sternly, "Perhaps go through some of the old CDs, get rid of the trash that's been piling up in the back seat. Keep Dean and me busy."

Bobby nods after a brief furrow of the eyebrows. "Mop in the closet. Might wanna use it."

Sam nods succinctly and grabs Dean's elbow, dragging him out to the car in the driveway. Of course it's clean with barely a speck on the windows and Sam knows that the interior won't be any different because Dean is incredibly anal about keeping his car in mint condition, but it's a way out of any other things Dean wants them to do.

"Looks pretty clean to me." Dean observes, whistling lowly as he runs a finger along the hood of the dustless Impala.

Sam opens the car door and unlocks the glove compartment.

"The glove compartment over here is my section," Sam explains, holding up a _Jason Manns_ CD (_AN_: A song from Jason Manns was the one playing on the IPod Sam had hooked up to the Impala during _Lazarus Rising_). He slides a box out from underneath the driver's seat and uncaps it, running his fingers through a pile of tapes, this time displaying an _AC/DC_ tape in front of Dean's face. "This box, however, is yours."

A smirk lit up Dean's face. "Good music," he grabs the tape from Sam's fingers.

"Your job is to go through both compartments and clean them up." He instructs briskly, exiting the car again.

Dean nods and slides over to sort through the impeccable neatness that is Sam's glove compartment. He pulls out the one _Metallica _CD that's amidst the rest of Sam's music and laughs triumphantly.

"I get the feeling we're related," Dean says. Sam's head perks up at the sentence.

"What?"

"We both have the_ Master of Puppets_ album! Were we like, separated at birth or something?" Dean snickers at the tapes. Sam rakes a hand through his hair.

"Huh," he responds dryly, his tone clearly horrified. He hurries away from the driveway in the fastest power walk he can manage without coming off as though he's running from Death itself. He rubs a hand over his eyes and hastens to Bobby's desk. His hands smack down on the wood firmly as he makes his entrance.

"Tell me that the ritual is coming along." He hisses.

Bobby heaves a deep sigh, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he mutters, "There's an ingredient for it that I don't have. I need to leave for a couple days, I know some people in California who can help me get a hold of it."

"You're kidding," Sam grits out, "tell me that this is a joke."

"Sorry."

"You're throwing me under a bus," Sam tells him, rubbing at his temples, "leaving me alone with Dean is like locking me in a room with a sex-deprived and horny eighteen-year-old and I am fresh meat. Can't I go and get the things myself?"

"Avoiding Dean," Bobby lectures with a cross of the arms, "is not going to work forever."

"It'll work for three months."

"Don't be such a chicken, Sam," Bobby reprimands gruffly, "you can handle Dean. Just tell him the truth, it's only been a week since you've been lying to him."

"Which makes it less unethical?" Sam questions quizzically.

Bobby groans, "Go outside and tell Dean the truth he deserves to know."

Sam sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he departs the room with a certain indignance in his strut and the words _you're not my dad_ escaping his lips quietly.

"Wuss." Bobby hisses underneath his breath.

_CHAPTER 5 TEASER_: "Wanna go out for dinner?" Dean inquires with a slightly husky tone to his voice.

_AN_: Now that I'm officially back from Chicago, all of the slow updates should stop completely! So what did everyone think of 'Monster Movie', for those keeping up with the amazing season four? I loved it, except for the fact that I wish that Sam would have been the one to kill the shapeshifter D, not the girl who stands in the way of wincest… but this week's 'Yellow Fever' looks super intriguing!! Who'll be tuning in?? Anybody who wants to discuss future and past episodes can comment on my livejournal posts where I give my own episode commentary! Visit me at _juliakerns5_ on LJ :D


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer_: I do not own Supernatural.

Sam's eyes are watching Bobby's truck grumble out of the driveway like a boy watching his parents leave him at boarding school. Eyes practically plastered onto the window and hands furled around the fabric that's in his pockets, Sam glares at Bobby as he waves him goodbye curtly. It's like leaving a fairly responsible boy with a four-year-old troublemaker who doesn't listen to any orders. And now Daddy is rolling away from the house, and taking with him, all obedience.

Sam feels a hand tug at his wrist and the other one lightly grabbing his shoulder. Sam hurriedly moves away from the unexpected touches and promptly knocks over a lamp with his elbow. The light flickers as the bulb sways on its pedestal.

"Dean, don't scare me like that." Sam breathes, stepping away as he replaces the lamp's position on the end table.

Dean laughs, "You're a friggin' hunter and you're scared of a little skin contact?"

Sam purses his lips together, not amused. He crosses his arms and skirts past Dean to head to the staircase.

"I think I'll turn in for the night." He announces firmly, nodding at his brother before he floats up the stairs with the speed of a jetpack flying through the house. Dean trots after him.

"Great idea."

Sam glances over his shoulder uncomfortably, "Uh… you know, I don't need company when I fall asleep." He attempts to dismiss Dean's proposition by waving him off.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's just me."

Sam nervously jerks his arm away when he feels Dean's fingertips running up his forearm in what he misconstrues as a consoling gesture. He attempts to smile back to Dean's sunny beam.

"Fine. You know what, I think I'll stay up a bit more. Make it a late night, studying up on that case in… uh, Vermont."

"Vermont?" Dean inquires and elegantly raises an eyebrow.

"Uh huh." He replies, "I'll be in the living room."

The older hunter smirks, "Can I break out the cornflakes and join you?"

Sam is partially reminded of a puppy following an older dog as though he idolizes it despite the fact that Dean has four years on Sam. He's being a bit annoying, a little bit nagging, and stubbornly not taking the hint to _get lost, you're being creepy_. Right now, Sam isn't sure whether he's just that foolish or whether he firmly believes that Sam is into Dean as much as Dean is into him.

"Dean, you need to rest up. You're head still must be hurting." Sam tells him.

Dean tuts incredulously, "That was weeks ago, Sammy! Besides, I'm a tough guy… you should know." He winks flirtatiously and reaches out to tweak Sam's nose. Sam hurriedly ceases the movement by stepping out of the way and ruffling Dean's hair much like a father would.

"Do as you're told, please." He orders politely, and heads for the bookshelf.

Although he hunches his shoulders with a heavy sigh of rejection, Dean obeys and heads up the stairs.

---

Sam is tucked into the corner of the upstairs hall, head pressed against the wall as he leafs through meaningless book after meaningless book. There's not an ounce of light in the house, not even slivers of light shining through the windows in honor of the moon, except for Sam's flashlight flicking across the pages of his book. There is no hunt, therefore there is no need to research, but Sam knows that if he heads to the guest room where Dean is splayed out on the bed like an octopus, he'll get molested by those wandering hands of his unaware brother.

_Would he be thinking this is he knew I was his brother?_ Sam muses, flipping through more books. The words are blurry lines, itching through his eyes like caterpillars crawling across walls. He's dizzy and sleepy, but every time he gets up to head to the bed, he weighs the pros and cons and waking up with Dean's leg hooked over his thigh.

He knows Bobby would probably make him wash dishes and clean up the salvage yard for hours if he came back with the disappointing news of _Dean still doesn't know that we share more than just beds, but also parents_. Time is ticking down and Sam knows Dean deserves to know who he was, but he remembers the easy way out – wait two and a half months and he could forget everything that had ever happened with him and Dean during this time period.

Sam shines the flashlight on his stack of books to stare at the titles he hadn't even bothered to read when he grabbed literature randomly off of the bookshelves.

"I see a light and I sure hope it's a bathroom."

Sam jumps, moving the beam of the light to the direction of the voice. The luminosity hits Dean straight on his bare chest, and Sam hastily moves it up to his eyes.

"Dean," he mutters, "what are you doing up?"

"The side of the bed… was cold. You weren't there. I was worried."

Sam sighs, staring up at the dark ceiling. He feels Dean take a seat next to him. Their shoulders bump together.

"I'm fine." Sam tells him.

"It's two in the morning!" Dean hisses quietly. His tone softens and he gently runs a hand through Sam's locks. The younger man stares at him in surprise and wriggles out of his fingers once again. Dean thinks nothing of it as Sam's startled expression is eclipsed in the shadows.

"I'm studying." Sam points to the books.

"Come to bed." Dean coaxes, rubbing at his arm once again. Sam has always known that his brother was a very touchy person who mollifies others with his smooth hands and seduction, but he had never felt it before on _himself_.

Sam shakes his head and shines the flashlight on the wall.

"Go to bed, Dean. You must be exhausted."

"Not without you, Sammy." Dean replies. He smiles slightly as he sees a smooth circle of light breaking through the darkness on the wall and moves his hand in front the flashlight.

"Shadow puppets? Really?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Stop behaving like an old man and have some fun, would you?" Dean pokes him in the shoulder.

The sound of the older man's laughter fills the void in the empty house, but Sam is definitely not laughing along. After five minutes of watching Dean show off his art of creating ducks, dogs, and Abraham Lincoln in the light with his fingers, Sam finally flicks off the light.

"Think we should head to bed, Dean. And I'll come along. But only if you stay on your side."

"Don't I always?" Dean cocks his head innocently. Sam rolls his eyes and as he's about to get up, he feels Dean tug on his wrist and bring him back down to the floor.

"Why… do you always try to push me away?" Dean asks him silently, his face calm but still hiding some of deplorableness. Sam knows that Dean never shows his emotions because of his need to look like the stoic adult.

"I… I don't."

Dean sighs, nodding, "Sam," he mumbles, "Sammy, stop. Please. I don't know who I'm supposed to go to without you."

Sam can feel his heart slowly crumbling into sand as he hears Dean's voice. In the distance, he can practically hear puppies weeping. He sighs into the air.

"God, Dean, stop making me feel guilty."

"I won't." Dean tells him and gingerly grabs the nape of Sam's neck. He twirls strands of hair around his thumb as he leans forward a millimeter and presses his parted lips on Sam's cheek. He pulls away and tenderly brushes two fingers over the spot that Dean claimed as his own with his mouth. Sam shivers at the touch and hastily gets up, extending a hand to his brother.

"I'm not letting you sleep there. You'll get a crick in your neck." Sam says and heaves his brother up with a pull.

---

"What the hell?!" Sam shrieks as he wakes up to Dean's eyes staring straight into his. He scrambles on the sheets until they pool around his waist and make him sit up. "God, Dean, were you just watching me sleep?"

"Like you've never watched anyone before, Sammy?" Dean teases.

Sam stares at him incredulously. "Dean, I am _this_ close to sleeping on the couch."

"Ooh, is there room for two on that baby?"

Sam rolls his eyes into his palm as he rubs at his face and rakes fingers through his hair. "Dean, _personal space_," he says firmly, getting up from the bed. He feels Dean's eyes scanning his naked upper body like an x-ray and feels the need to cover up his chest swiftly with his shirt.

"Dude! _Stop staring!_"

"C'mon, you know you like it."

Sam wants to hurl something across the room in frustration. He faces Dean furiously, hands tugging at the roots of his hair. The words _I'm your brother, you pervert! Stop checking me out!_ are on the tip of his tongue, teeth, and even his gums, but he can't reveal it. Sam can almost see the distrust forming on Dean's face faster than a bullet shooting from a gun.

"Dean, we're just friends." Sam says simply.

"You haven't even given me a chance! Either give me a reason, or give me a night." Dean pounds his fist into the mattress, clearly devoted to his goal.

"Dean, if you knew the kind of person I was before you lost your memory–"

"I don't care about who you were then, I care about who you are _now_! A man I respect and a man with an ass that just won't quit." Dean smiles at his last statement, his eyes wandering down to Sam's midriff again. Sam furrows his eyebrows together

"Dean, _stop_. Now get dressed." He tosses a clean shirt and pants at his brother before vanishing in the bathroom. Sam would flush himself down the toilet just to avoid the conversation he knows Dean will pursue once again the moment he departs the bathroom.

Oh, is Sam going to hog the bathroom today.

His smug smile takes a u-turn the moment he hears Dean knock on the door.

"Sammy! Get out of there for a second."

"Uh… what is it?" Sam asks tentatively.

"Just get out of the friggin' bathroom, your hair can wait, princess." Dean barks.

Sighing, the younger man slips out of the room and stares Dean in the face with a hurry-up-this-better-be-fast expression riding his features. Dean grins at him dazzlingly.

"Wanna go out for dinner?" Dean inquires with a slightly husky tone to his voice. Sam's expression of horror basically conveys his answer, but Dean remains hopeful as he waits expectantly for a response.

Through Sam's mind races the horrors of a date at a fancy restaurant with clinking silverware and violins humming their ears. Dean would try to feed him appetizers and slide his foot up Sam's leg. Or if they went to a late movie, the darkness would eventually envelop the room and then Dean would huddle against Sam in feigned fright during the gory parts of the horror films until he would be close enough to lick his neck. And then he probably would. And then there is the worst case scenario, which is if their supposed 'date' is actually just their guest room with candles and roses surrounding the bed. And of course, sex music in the stereo.

"We can talk about you and me… not as a unit, but… separately. Uh."

Sam's face suddenly lights up in epiphany. He can easily inform Dean of their current related status during dinner – preferably during the appetizers, so any romantic involvement would be cut down by at least a half.

"Fine." Sam smiles at him curtly, "But no fast food."

"Can we eat pie?"

"Can we not?" Sam brushes off with a slightly repulsed curl of the upper lip.

Dean chuckles. "Don't worry, I'm not that messy of an eater."

"I respectfully disagree." Sam sets his jaw grimly.

"Don't try to undermine me, Sammy! I'm a charming man and soon you'll be agreeing," he winks coyly, pressing another wet kiss on his cheek before patting his shoulder and heading to the closet.

_CHAPTER 6 TEASER_: "I think you should know something about the two of us." Sam starts, swallowing dryly at his throat.


End file.
